


You

by lazarus_girl



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “It wasn’t always this easy to love her. To let yourself be loved.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuteginger](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cuteginger).



> Future Fic. Follows S3 and S4 events, but uses the alternate timeline/canon mentioned in Naomi’s ‘True Love’ speech. Quotes from and inspired by Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘[You](http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=11507)’ taken from the poetry collection _Rapture_. 
> 
> Originally posted at my Livejournal. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

This, like most things in your life, was an accident. One wrong turn in the library stacks, and you’ve gone from looking for textbooks for your latest politics essay – you’ve been preoccupied and left it to the last minute – to sitting on the floor, cross-legged, reading poetry that sounds like it’s leapt from your head straight onto the page. Your feelings have always been hard to explain, even with the help of an extensive vocabulary acquired from years of reading, back when you preferred just to look at the world and keep everyone in it at arms length, rather than experience and embrace all it offered.

Emily changed all that.

_Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,_  
 _so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,_  
 _like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables_  
 _like a charm, like a spell._

It’s perfect. It’s what you’ve been trying to say to her all this time, only much more eloquently, of course. You stop for a second, flip the book over and read the spine: Carol Ann Duffy. Some other unconsciously absorbed facts spring up unannounced as you register the name – you’re good at that, a bit of an information sponge – that she’s the first bisexual poet laureate, and she teaches at Manchester Metropolitan, one of Emily’s choices when you were applying last year. At the thought of Emily, you smile, and probably blush, remembering something entirely different; something unknown, and unpublished.

GCSE year, you went to on a class trip to listen to her give a reading – not this, something bizarre about a man stealing a snowman and love being like an onion – and everyone kept going on and on about how she was a lesbian. The word stuck out, mostly because it was used as an insult (lesbo, dyke, rarely the full word, which somehow made it that bit more horrendous to hear whenever it _was_ said), made you consciously aware that the love she spoke of in other poems was between two women. You pushed it away then, refused to think that this woman, stood up there on the stage with her short hair, elegant dark suit, and confident, powerful voice had anything in common with you, a shy schoolgirl, hiding behind her sharp tongue and newly-dyed platinum blonde hair.

You were half in awe and half jealous.

The whole experience was made that bit more uncomfortable by the fact you’d been forced to sit next to Emily on the bus, since Katie was off sick – tonsillitis, appendicitis, something like that. Without her there, Emily looked so lost, but you chose to ignore sadness you felt; to suppress the overwhelming urge to hug her in the hope it would make her feel better. As fate would have it, you ended up spending the whole day together, more or less, topped off with a shared cigarette on the steps outside the venue, huddled together under your Army surplus jacket – miles too big – because it was pouring with rain. Emily was paranoid that Miss Kelly would catch you any second, so she was on edge the entire time. You didn’t really give a toss about Kelly, since the worst she could do was suspend you – that’s a rather empty threat – and you were far more concerned with the fact Emily was sitting so close, and how that made your heart race. A little after that, you lost the ability to breathe properly, so you coughed on the smoke when you inhaled, like it was your first.

There wasn’t a lot of talk, since Emily was so painfully shy – the fact there was someone in the world less socially adept than you came as a surprise – and you weren’t the greatest of conversationalists either. Arguing, answering questions and giving speeches were easy for you, like breathing even, but talking to Emily, properly conversing, because she actually listened and cared about things beyond the pages of Heat magazine, sent you into a panic and made you clam up. Of course, that made you look disinterested and arrogant, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

The feelings, the fear she stirred in you just seemed to intensify rather than dissipate. At first, they didn’t really have a name. You dismissed them; wished away as admiration, but they remained, silently consuming you, until it all fell into place one day, or rather one night, and you began to wonder if you were in love with her, if you loved a girl. Years of long looks – they weren’t longing looks, you told yourself many times – across classrooms, awkward hellos and goodbyes all culminated in one, single glorious moment when she’d kissed you at Claire Nixon’s birthday party in the darkened corner of the kitchen, whilst mixing drinks. You were both drunk already, but not drunk enough for Katie. It felt nice though, the way it made things all warm, fuzzy, and simple. It made Emily giggly and sweet and made you relax; let your guard drop, just, let go. It was clumsy, awkward, and stupidly brief. Given all the hassle that came after, it was frighteningly disproportionate, but worth every second of that hassle all the same.

Though you desperately wanted it to be different, wanted to try for her – you practiced what you’d say sometimes, should your paths happen to cross – after a while, it was just easier to pretend, to carry on being that ever so clever girl who thought she was above everything. It was your way of guarding yourself, barricade and protect; that was your motto. That girl was never hurt by Katie’s accusations and taunting. That girl never cared who started the kiss and who finished it. That girl never cried herself to sleep because she felt so trapped and so completely alone.

Your heart ached for her, sometimes. All the time. In the darkest of times.

_Falling in love is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart_  
 _like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin._  
 _Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in._

The truth of it strikes you hard.

She’ll like it, you think, with a smile. Emily’s a dreamer, a sweetheart, loves the old-fashioned details of romance. The little things count with her, the things make her face light up; make her smile, make her look at you like you’re the only and most important thing in her life, like she is in yours. Like some heroine straight out of Austen, Emily likes to be wooed, likes it when you’re chivalrous, even if you were the one who got swept off her feet.

You carry on reading, slower this time, appreciating the words. It makes you miss Emily that little bit more. You’re terrible at dealing with it sometimes. In the past month, you’ve seen more of train carriages and stations than you have of your girlfriend. You’re tired of it: the frustration of travelling up and down the country between Sheffield (you) and Durham (her); of pacing the platform and panicking when she’s late – Emily’s just as bad; of rushed quick kisses and wanting her so badly you’re barely through the door before you’re tugging at her clothes. Sociability is a luxury you can no longer afford.

No matter what you do and where you go, the visit’s always too short and it’s never, ever enough – you’re sure that the hours go faster. The goodbyes are always lengthy, tearful and heartbreaking. She’s worth it, of course she is. The second she gets off the train and looks and you, in that sweet Emily way, you can’t help but run and throw your arms around her, and she kisses you like she hasn’t seen you for years. All very Brief Encounter and not very cool, but you’ve stopped paying attention to what other people think, and have, belatedly, embraced the fact that you too, are one of these soppy romantic types.

It’s ridiculous, you think, that you feel this way when you’ve had the luxury of travelling with her for a year, relishing in the fact you had her to be with at all – Freddie’s death has made all of you closer, made you hang on to Emily that little bit tighter – but going from having everything, to practically nothing at all, feels like torture. Much later than planned, you went on a backpacking trip that took in most of the Southern Hemisphere. You went from place to place, working when you could to fund everything. All the planning went out the window and you just took it day by day. Nothing else mattered except being with her and experiencing it all. You drank too much; tried random food; met some amazing people, and fell in with each other all over again – not that you were ever _out_ of love. You rediscovered each other. The last stop was Goa. It was everything you’d imagined, and more of course, because Emily was with you. With your tickets home paid for, you used the last of your money to buy her a ring, made from the brightest, most beautiful Indian gold you’ve ever seen, and gave it to her on the last night, whilst you sat on the beach, watching the sunset, drinking Kingfisher beer.

She’s never taken it off since.

On nights like this, when you’re knackered, miserable and, if you’re honest, rather lonely, Durham feels as far away from here as Goa was from Bristol. All you want to do sit with her and cuddle, whilst you sit and watch crappy telly together sharing cigarettes and Garibaldis – which Emily constantly tries and fails to ration – because you hardly get time for stuff like that anymore, even when you’re back home, since you’re either out or visiting people. Most of the time, she just ends up on your lap, and you kiss for what feels like days, because you can, and the telly goes unwatched, because all you can focus on is each other. All you want to focus on is each other.

Just thinking of her now, your beautiful girl, makes you feel a bit brighter. No matter how long it’s been, it feels the same between you. Your heart still skips a beat every time you see her. All she has to do is look at you a certain way and it makes your breath hitch. When she comes to visit, bag full of novels, she’s always bursting with bits and pieces of news and quotes from this or that. She reads to you in her perfect, raspy little voice – she should do audiobooks or chatlines it’s that good, you’ve told as much – while you lie in bed together, after making love. It makes you feel grown up; a bit decadent and bohemian. Those little moments are all stored away for when she’s not with you. The tiny bed in your room that’s far too small for two of you always feels twenty times bigger when she’s not there, and you can’t hold her close, stroke her hair or just revel in the sensation of her skin next to yours.

Most of the people you’ve met who had boyfriends or girlfriends at the start of term barely lasted beyond Freshers Week. You’ve probably been through more in the last few years than most couples do in twice that time, and you’re stronger for it. That alone just reminds you how different your relationship with Emily’s become, how special she is and how incredibly lucky you are.

Still, you make it work. You make the best of it.

You’ve both stopped thinking how much phone credit you’re using up because when you’re busy, and it’s too hard to juggle essays and reading with travel, you’ve come to rely on it. No matter how hard you try not to stay talking until Emily’s fallen asleep – you never hang up first, you always make her – you do it anyway. It was during one of these long conversations, plentiful in the first few days of separation, that you decided to write letters to each other. Even in this age of email and Skype, you write nearly every other day. It started as something of a joke, but over time, it’s changed into something else entirely, and now they’re something you both put time into; they’re precious. A gift. They’ve become your favourite thing, your favourite way to show her or rather tell her, that you love her. Better than holding hands, buying her flowers or presents for nothing, because they let you say things that even now, you wouldn’t dare say aloud. Part of you, no matter how small will always feel like you’re standing in front of Emily naked all time. Not because she scares you or what you feel scares you – that fear nearly cost you everything – it’s that she knows you so completely and loves you all the same.

Seeing them stacked in your pigeonhole is one of the best parts of your day. The mere fact they’re there, waiting, hopeful, unread is cause enough for celebration, and sometimes you run there instead of walking, just so you can read them that bit sooner. You love reading things that Emily’s written, not just because of what she writes – she has a poetic little soul, it’s rather lovely – but because she’s written them in her own hand, and it’s all elegant and sloping and she makes mistakes sometimes and you can smell her perfume on the paper. Who needs Times New Roman font and a webcam when you have that?

_I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,_  
 _in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,_  
 _staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud,_  
 _from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me._

It wasn’t always this easy to love her. To let yourself be loved.

After secondary school, you’d hoped that college would be a fresh start for you, where no one knew about your so-called ‘dykeness,’ your second-hand, customised clothes; your outspoken, hippie mother or the house full of people you hardly knew. You could be anything you wanted and planned it out meticulously, since you’d only get one chance to start fresh. This Naomi Campbell would well-read and care about the world, much like the old one, but she’d be less guarded and a lot more polite, so she’d make some decent friends at last, since people at college obviously wanted to learn, so they already held significantly more interest than the majority of her year group. Yes. She’d find like-minded people, who didn’t watch Hollyoaks and listen to Kiss FM.

To that end, over the summer, you’d hacked all your hair off in a fit of rage, since the blonde made you stand out far too much, that and the fact you were the one of the tallest girls in your year made you too noticeable and you hated it. Though, for the most part, that hatred stemmed from the fact you knew Emily liked it, so you did it to spite her – it’s the first thing she thinks of, after your eyes, she says. The first person at school to notice you’d dyed it was her. She said it made you look like some old movie star. Outwardly, your response was a thin, tight smile, as you watched a not so faint blush creep over Emily’s features. Inwardly, your heart felt like it might take flight and leave the wreckage of you behind; Emily left with nothing but blood and bones.

As college got closer, your fantasy changed completely. Now it was an escape, you’d finally be free of Emily Jane Fitch, her big brown eyes and sweet little smile. You’d be free of it all. You’re making it sound bad, you know, but sometimes it was just so suffocating; feeling so much. You’d have rather felt nothing at all, been silent and solitary, but you couldn’t do that either. By now, you had a reputation for being mouthy, for swatting away Katie Fitch’s little jokes with practised ease, so you had no option but to carry on. Not talking would only make things worse. In a bid to find a distraction, you threw yourself into causes of various kinds – the environment, animal testing and such – more zealously than in the past, attending rallies with your mum. Anything to put some distance between this perfect little destroyer of a girl who knew nothing of her power.

There’s a strange pull in your chest as you remember everything. It’s not a pain, as such, because those days are long gone, but, the reminder of who you were, who you still could be, if Emily weren’t the girl she is. You trace a fingertip over the words, repeating them to yourself.

When you glanced across at her that very first day, it was a shock, and not the good kind. She was almost unchanged from the pretty little brunette you saw four years prior, when you walked into Mr Adams’ class as the new girl, coming in half way through the year. Apart from an asymmetric fringe and a rather glorious cherry-red hue to her hair, it was as if no time had passed at all, which just reinforced how long you’d felt the way you had. Crushes were meant to be fleeting, phases; like your short-lived stab at vegetarianism, undone by the smell of bacon cooking, coming from a van parked up at a rally you went to, and definitely not something you carried around, day in and day out for years. Of course, now you know it’s because you were in love with her, and love, though it changes, never really fades.

The harder you tried to stay away from Emily, the closer you seemed to get. She was everywhere. She kept you awake at night as you churned it all over, tried to sort it out, let yourself imagine what it would be like to be near her and not want to run; not hate yourself for how you were feeling and just let yourself feel it, but you weren’t ready. It was a strange time; half of you despised how Emily made you feel and the other half just longing, so desperately for the slightest glimpse of her.

If you’re honest, maybe you engineered it a bit, subconsciously, by turning up in the same places and sort of being friends with the same people – you only really counted Effy as one back then, everyone else came later – because by now, it was pretty obvious Emily felt something for you, that it was very much mutual – you hated that too, because it gave everything meaning, and you couldn’t hide from it. Emily liking you back made it real and nothing to do with a vivid imagination. You were wanted, and she’d grown so unashamed of that wanting; was so open and so honest when you pushed her to be. That in itself was frightening, made you envious even, because you never felt like you’d get to that point or even want to be.

Once, you couldn’t even let yourself imagine your life with Emily in it, whereas now, you can’t imagine life without her. You came so perilously close to the latter, and that was no way to live at all.

You’ve changed because of her, and it’s been a struggle. A fight. A battle. A war. One that you feel like you’ve finally won. Emily’s made you softer, more open, by just being herself: brave, persistent, beautiful. Some people would argue that softness is allied to weakness; that love itself makes you weak. For a while, you would have agreed, but, when it comes down to it, it takes more guts to admit feelings than to run from them, no matter how much they terrify. You always knew she’d get to you in the end. She got under your skin long ago. It was like someone had struck a match, lit a fire in you without your asking. It’ll never burn out, you know that now, and you spent too much time trying to put it out, only for it rage that little bit harder, roar away inside of you until you had no choice but to act on it.

The kiss at Pandora’s wasn’t the fluke you liked to paint it as. The drugs helped you along, greased the wheels, as it were, made Emily just that little bit braver and stopped her from worrying about what people would think. They were a crutch, an excuse really, you know that now. Fear made you so dismissive of it, hoping against hope that Katie wasn’t about to saunter in and catch you like before. You’d have been prepared at least, better equipped to fend her off if things had turned out like that again. What’s more, if she did, you’d take the blame in a heartbeat, because it’s Emily, and you’ve always felt the need to protect her, to save her from what you’ve suffered, even if it took you a long time to realise why.

It’s another neat twist of fate, you think, that you and Emily got another chance, to rewrite your history.

At the time, lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, a little buzzed, you thought that it was the best night of your life, and you replayed the kiss, kisses, over and over again. Emily had gotten better – you remember that vividly – she was bolder, and yet, somehow still as caring and as gentle. Her nerves had gone maybe, you’re not sure. Not that it mattered, because you’d had enough to drink for the both of you by that time, and were convinced that you were going to drop the beer and the Pinot or do something stupid like bump heads or use too much tongue. Thankfully, Emily was very much in control, and it was all rather beautiful.

You let the book drop a moment then, lost in the recollection of it as you trace your tongue over your lips. It’s been a while since Emily’s kissed you, but it’s not hard to remember what it feels like, how passionate she is, even when it’s only a little peck. Though, you’d probably get arrested for indecency if you just did what you wanted. Even so, sometimes, you’ve learned, albeit belatedly, that it’s good to give into your feelings, to think with the heart instead of the head. That’s something else Emily’s taught you. One of many things. A fair few of those lessons have taken place at the lake – your lake, as you call it now.

The first of those visits will be etched into your memory forever. You don’t care if it sounds overblown or clichéd or that the event itself sounds like something out of those questionable erotic novels your mum reads. Sex, by a lake in the middle of the afternoon is all a bit Mills and Boon, but it was perfect, the single most wonderful, passionate moment in your life, up until then. You stifle a laugh at how ridiculous it sounds, but it’s true. It all unfolded so quickly that you didn’t really have time to think – the confusion and all the thoughts came much later – but in hindsight, you’re glad that you went with it, just once. It was inevitable really.

You look up at the tiled ceiling, count the squares, listen to the droning buzz of the strip light, and wish you were somewhere else. Wish you were back there instead, lying on that tartan blanket, watching Emily sleep, because things that feel suspiciously like tears are threatening to come out – half sad, half happy, so, sappy – and a library full of randoms is hardly an appropriate venue for that. There’s only one person you allow yourself to cry in front of, and it’s been far too many hours since you heard her voice.

She always knows exactly what to say to make you feel better.

With a shake of your head, you push the sadness away, and stand up, pulling on your coat. You hold the book in your hands for a moment, closed, before sliding it back into place, exactly where you found it, memorizing the position for the future. Letting out a sigh, you gather up your things, juggling an already heavy bag with a stack of textbooks, pages of interest already marked. You need to get out of here; far away from the atmosphere of desperation and stress. If you had your way, you’d skip tomorrow’s lectures and get the train to Durham instead, surprise Emily with breakfast; before she goes off to debate the merits of Jane Eyre.

It’s dark outside, you notice, with some surprise, as you swipe the books through the self service machine. You’re convinced it knows you’re trying to escape, because it refuses to recognise any of the barcodes, and you end up maniacally shoving the book under the scanner through gritted teeth. Someone you recognise from Political Analysis comes up beside you, and you exchange silent nods – Chris, you recall, after a moment, a rather animated member of your seminar group – before he whispers ‘this way,’ and you realise, with some annoyance, that you’ve been holding the offending thing the wrong way up the whole time. It registers and beeps like it should’ve done, and you feel rather stupid. You mouth thanks, and he shrugs it off, but you return the favour a few moments later, holding the barrier open so he can leave without swiping his card. It earns you both a patented narrow-eyed glare from the librarian, but you give as good as you get, and throw one right back.

While you attempt to fit yet more books into far too small a bag – you’ll never tell your mum she was right about that – you watch Chris as he goes ahead of you, meeting a pretty dark-haired girl half way down the stairs that you’ve never seen until now. They embrace, and then kiss, before going outside, holding hands.

Witnessing moments like that are when you miss Emily the most, and make you wonder why you chose to go to different universities. That same question often keeps you awake at night, when she’s miles away, and you’re left alone staring at the ceiling when she could be next to you. You know the answer, of course, and you came to that decision together, after many hours of talking; but it doesn’t make living with it any easier. At home, everyone thinks of you as one unit, as the blissfully happy couple that the couple that will stay together for eons. While you secretly like it, because it makes you feel like you’re in a proper relationship – the fact that you’ve finally got Jenna’s blessing just reinforces it – you know that sometimes it infuriates Emily, because you watched her struggle to get out from under Katie’s shadow for years. She’s only now living the way she wants, and as much as you love being with her, you couldn’t bear to take that away from her. Emily Fitch isn’t _just_ your girlfriend, in fact, she isn’t _just_ anything. She’s the strong one; the leader, and you just follow along. That’s nothing to do with weakness, it’s just truth. You’d be nothing without her and love her completely, in a way you never imagined was possible. Her happiness comes first, and the expense of everyone and everything else.

You take the stairs two at a time, contemplating what vending machine delight will double as your evening meal, whilst you search through your pockets for your phone. You smile to yourself as you listen to your voicemail, first hearing your mother, extolling the virtues of a well-balanced, organic meal, and then Emily, saying how rubbish you are at looking after yourself when she’s not there. True, you’re not the greatest of cooks; the last time you made toast, you nearly burnt the kitchen down, but, in your defence, you were distracted, by someone several inches shorter than you, who was intent on kissing you to death at that very moment, so the temperamental toaster was soon forgotten. As it turns out, there are occasions when you _can_ show restraint, and you bypass the bank of machines altogether.

The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and the cold hits you immediately. You shudder at it. Muttering under your breath as you go down the steps, you wrap yourself in the brightly-coloured striped scarf Emily bought you, glad of its warmth, since you managed to leave your hat in your last seminar, and every pair of gloves you own are fingerless. You light up quickly, your umpteenth of the day, making a face at all the signs that forbid you to do it. Taking a drag, you phone Emily, pacing back and forth whilst you wait her to answer. It’s only just after nine, so unless she’s turned into a nun without your notice, she’ll still be up, no doubt turning her bag and/or room upside down to find her phone before it kicks over to voicemail.

Ring four comes and goes, so you run over how the conversation will start, and though there’s a tiny little voice nagging at you, panicking that perhaps Emily’s been run over by a taxi or a bus or something even worse, you tell yourself to stop being so ridiculous. She’s perfectly fine. After all, your inbox would be heaving, given that your flatmates have practically adopted her – the fear that washed over you when Maria saw the pictures of Goa on your wall was entirely unfounded – and everyone else thinks you’re practically married. Katie alone would send enough messages to keep Vodaphone going for a month, and there hasn’t been a sound from it ever since you switched it from silent. You take another drag to calm down, because it’s the first time you’ve spoken today, and the last thing you want is to sound desperate, pathetic and neurotic, so you practice cheerful, witty and flirtatious instead. Except, you got a bit sidetracked, marvelling at yourself and how smooth you sounded, imagining a doe-eyed, giggly Emily on the other end, rapt, so when at when she finally answers with a cute little ‘Hi’ you nearly miss it altogether and respond with:

“Emily?”

 _“Well done, you phoned the right girl. Obviously university is paying off!”_ she’s talking loudly to make herself heard over the noise around her. There’s music – shit music, you note, with some disdain – and lots of talking, it sounds like a party of some kind. The ones her kitchen hold are already becoming legendary, thanks to the last one being called to a premature halt after someone set off a fire alarm.

“Funny,” you’re deflecting; keeping it light, but as soon as she spoke, your heartbeat got faster, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

_“Hold on, I can’t hear a fucking word you’re saying!”_

“Don’t go outside, it’s too cold!”

_“This from the girl who thought she was going to freeze to death the second we got to my Grandparents in Aberdeen!”_

You laugh a little at the memory, picturing yourself in cottage of her Grandmother’s kitchen, practically sitting on top of her old Rayburn stove, wrapped in a blanket. Just when you think your imagination’s a bit too realistic and you feel something burning, you realise it’s your cigarette, burned down to filter, and you flick it away.

_“Don’t worry, I’ll stay nice and warm.”_

There’s lots of doors banging then, a few polite ‘excuse mes’ and less polite ‘fuck sakes’ and the noise from before is a lot quieter. It’s stupid, but you start to walk too, because, it’s sort of like being closer, even if it’s only by a few steps; well, that and the fact you’re in serious danger of turning into a block of ice.

_“You still there, babe?”_

There it is again, that little word. Only Emily gets to call you without getting a swat to the head.

“Yeah,” you take a breath to steady yourself. “It’s good to hear your voice,” you add, before you realise.

_“Are you alright?"_

You close your eyes. Emily is on to you already; her concern evident.

“Fine, just … you know,” you tail off, turning in a circle, switching your phone from one hand to the other. “Essay stress and stuff. Flinders is just being a prick with all the work …”

It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

_“You can do it though, I know you can. My gorgeous, genius of a girlfriend can do anything.”_

She says it in her sweet little singsong voice, and want to believe her, because she believes in you, always. And yet, what you really want to say is on the tip of your tongue. You take a breath, desperately want to say something else, make a joke, make her laugh, change the subject, anything to stop it.

“I don’t. I can’t Ems.”

Emily sighs. _“You’re too hard on yourself. You need to take a break.”_

“I can’t do this, be here, without you. I know, I’m fucking selfish, and we talked about this,” those betraying tears are back, and you try not to let them escape. It comes out in a strangled little sob instead.

 _“Oh Naomi,”_ you hear Emily’s voice waver, and it’s like someone’s stabbed you in the chest.

“I’m sorry, I know I said I’d try and most days I can. It’s just today. It’s been shit, and I …” you force yourself to stop, and leave out that you miss waking up with her, because the last thing you want is to make Emily cry when you can’t comfort her.

So much for the plan to make her swoon.

 _“Babe, please, don’t do this. I hate when you’re upset and I can’t be there.”_ She takes a gulp of air. _“It’s hard, I know, but … It’s just three years, it’s nothing. We’ll have our whole lives together. You love it, you know you do.”_

You reply without thinking, “I love you more.”

There’s silence on the line, and you feel panic of a different kind. You jump in again to stop it from swallowing you whole.

“I mean that. I don’t care if I have to defer. I don’t care if I have to sleep on your floor. I don’t care if we have no money and have to live off Garibaldis and that fucking shit Sladki vodka we used to drink, and I have to sell everything I own so we can get a flat together. All I care about is you. All I want is you. You’re my world, you know that?”

You stand still then, shocked that all of that came out, ignoring that everyone passing in your general direction just heard you say things you only ever meant to say to Emily in the confines of your bedroom.

 _“You’re mine. You’ve always been. You always will be. When you’re not here, it feels like…”_ you hear Emily sniff back tears. _“Part of me is missing.”_

Part of you is happy, because it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to you, and part of you feels horrible, because she sounds so disconsolate, and you can’t do anything about it.

“Ems… please don’t cry. It’s OK. I love you,” you say, quietly, desperate to calm her.

You’re barely holding it together now, and you don’t care who sees either.

Emily takes a breath, swallows hard, _“I love you, too. I love you so much, that I got on a train right after my lectures to come and see you. It cost a bomb and it took fucking ages because of the delays –”_

“Really?” it comes out as a ridiculous squeak, because you can’t actually believe what she’s saying.

_“Really.”_

“Just … don’t move, OK?”

_“I’m not going anywhere, babe.”_

Oh, now this is more like the conversation you planned. Emily’s cheeky, flirtatious voice is back.

“Two minutes, darlin.’ Promise,” you reply, all too quickly.

_“You’re worth the wait.”_

“You want anything?”

_“Only you.”_

You break your rule, and hang up before her for the first time ever. Trying to play it cool, you walk at first, then, a little faster, gradually picking up pace until you’re running or trying to, given that it feels like you’re carrying your own body weight in books. The road barely gets a second glance before you cross into St George’s Close. When you make it unscathed, you curse yourself for being so outrageously unfit, and resolve, yet again, to give up smoking, because you’re currently wheezing like your Nana Eileen and she’s over three times your age. The pact, like every other, will be short-lived, lasting roughly until you’re in bed tonight with Emily, still very much entangled, and she starts with the Flaubert, reading Madame Bovary in a hushed tone, making you feel all European, so you’ll light up, and impress her with your conversational French. The lurid image vanishes as quickly as it arrived, but you’re still smiling. In fact, you haven’t stopped smiling ever since you found out she’s here.

Thankfully, there’s no evil electronics to contend with this time, since someone’s already opened the gate, and you manage to sneak through before it closes again. You’re eternally grateful for the blast of heat you get once inside. There’s a party and a rather serious pool competition going on in the common room, but you bypass it all quickly, avoiding the appeals from people to come in with a determined shake of your head. Not even Simon and his manic arm waving, beer in hand will dissuade you. Emily’s been waiting long enough.

Now you slow down, hoping to look cool, calm and collected rather than flustered and ridiculously excited. You check your reflection in the set of double doors, confronted with rather messy hair, and run a hand through it before you head upstairs. This time, you take off your bag, just to make it up there that bit faster.

There’s a music-off happening up here, and you have to negotiate various entangled people in differing stages of drunkenness before you finally make into your flat. It only occurs to your now that you have absolutely no idea where Emily is. There’s noise from the kitchen, so you hope to God that she’s in there with Maria, because she’ll look after her, and not downstairs with Alex and his moron mate Leon, testing out one of their random drinks concoctions. Emily, being Emily would probably drink them all under the table, of course.

Deciding against announcing yourself, though you’d have to scream to be heard, you head for your room to offload everything instead. You want to look vaguely presentable for Emily after she’s made all this effort, but you know she wouldn’t care either way. The door sticks for a second, and now you’re wondering if you should have made an impromptu stop to get her some flowers or Dairy Milk just to surprise her as you close the door, chucking your bag, coat and scarf into the corner. You’re seriously considering phoning her again, and beginning to question if Simon’s hidden her somewhere, when you finally stop and turn around. It feels like the world stops then, because sitting there, expectant, smiling, beautiful, is Emily, waiting, just for you.

The last stanza of the poem floods into your brain and tears streak freely down your cheek at the sight of her.

_As I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir._  
 _There you are on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream._

You blink once and there in her place, is a younger Emily, tiny, cautious, with cherry red hair that matched your duvet, holding out an application for Student President. Another blink and she’s back, more confident, with her chocolate brown hair that matches her eyes. Deep, dark, and magnetic. They still search you; they still know you, better than you know yourself.

Wordlessly, she closes the gap between you and cradles your face, brushing the tears away, pressing light kisses where they stopped. She’s crying too, silently, but you’re both smiling, beaming, as she pulls you into a hug. Wrapping your arms around her, you squeeze tight and she squeals when you lift her momentarily off the ground. You lean down, closing your eyes as you inhale the scent of her hair and her perfume, revelling in the comfort it brings, because you can never imagine how good she feels, no matter how hard you try.

She rests her head on your shoulder, and murmurs that she’s missed you as you stroke her hair. Reluctantly, you break away.

“I missed you too. So much,” you say, looking her right in the eyes.

She kisses you, slowly, softly, like no one else ever has. Your hands drop to her hips, bringing her closer again, deepening the kiss. Arching into you, she threads her fingers through your hair. Everything feels right again. Emily’s found her missing piece, and you know that she’s complete again, because you are too. You just fit. She’s your other half. The missing part of you. You don’t subscribe to all that daft stuff about destiny and soulmates – Emily does, it’s adorable – but you’re beginning to think that there’s something bigger, something higher, that keeps you on the right path, keeps you together. There’s still a significant part of you that wakes up everyday wondering how she’s still with you, whether you deserve her and how she copes in the fleeting moments you’ve done idiotic, hurtful things. That’s true love, you suppose, it has no conditions.


End file.
